Hell on Earth
by Strapakai
Summary: Nurse Maggie is back. Some soldiers pay with their lives, others with their body. This one payed with his mind. Read to find out who.
1. Chapter 1

**Special thank you to Synbou, who Beta read my draft. It was like old times, talking story to the confusion or annoyance to those around us (I.e. my husband an children). **

**This first came to me last year, when a Canadian soldiers was put on trial for doing some very horrendous things. I got to wondering what living through the horrors of war could do to soldiers. Some pay with their lives, other pay with their bodies, and for some it costs them their minds. **

**This story is completed, but I am still tweaking the details. Like most heavy stuff that I write, I need to take a step back, let it rest, then polish it. The rest will come when I feel it is tweaked enough to share. **

**Your comment may impact my polishing. **

**Part 1: Hell on Earth**

**Clayton Abernathy, once known as General Hawk, wheeled himself down the long corridor that led to the psychiatric unit of the Long Term and Rehabilitation Institution. Once a month, he undertook the two hundred mile trip to visit the occupants of the hospital. He usually spent the day with those who had birthdays that month. However, there were a few he visited every time. This was one of these men.**

"**How is he?" He asked Nurse O'Connell, who had once been called Nurse Maggie, even if her name was Christine O'Connell. **

"**Not good, Sir." Even if G.I. Joe had been disbanded for a bit over five years, and Clayton had been retired for about as long, old forms of address were hard to drop. "His periods of lucidity are growing further apart and are shorter. He's refusing to eat or drink. We've been forced to tube feeding." The nurse said. Despite her professionalism, Clayton could hear the sorrow in her voice. **

"**Is there anything that can be done?" **

"**We've got permission from the FDA to try an experimental anti-psychotic. It will be here next week." She sighed, "If we can get him there."**

"**That bad?" **

**She nodded. "I warn you, it is not pretty. If he attempts suicide again, we fear he will not miss. So we are doing all we can to keep him safe from himself." She laughed. It was a low bitter sound. "I never realised until I started working here, how G.I. Joe training for resourcefulness could backfire."**

**At the ward door, the nurse swiped her card, and then held it open for the retired General to come through. They signed in. Then, she got an update from the orderly that was keeping watch over four monitors. **

**They went down another hall to the door at the end. The nurse held up her swipe card, but turned to the General. "Brace yourself, Sir." With that, she opened the door. **


	2. Chapter 2

G.I. Joe is not mine. It belongs to Hasbro. I just like playing with their armymen (and women) from time to time.

Thank you for the reviews. Like all fic writers, they mean a lot to me.

Part 2: Hell on Earth

Dashiel Faireborn was laying prone on a metal frame bed, held down by four point restraints. He had once been a soldier, with the body of one. Muscle trained to healthy limits; arms the size of telephone poles, and a six-pack as hard as his old code name. The muscles were now atrophied. The skin sagged around bones and draped tendons. Clayton could have wrapped his hand around the man's wrist and touch finger to thumb.

His face was gaunt, eyes sunken in, surrounded by pockets of darkness, creating the illusion of black-eyes. Maybe the circles stood out so much, because the skin was translucent. The only other colour was from the roadmap of blue veins that covered his body. Even the white feeding tube, going up his nose, stood out in stark contrast, to the non-colour of his face. Long gone, was the healthy leather weathered skin he once had from days spent in the sun and wind.

The gauntness and colouring gave him a skeletal look. The wild brittle hair did not help. It retained most of its youthful dark brown, only streaking a bit here and there. However, it had fallen out in patches, not the typical male baldness. Some spots were dense, others thin to bald.

Despite all of this, it was not the worse. Dashiell only wore a hospital gown that had bunched up around his waist, revealing a bulky adult diaper. The retired general wanted to look away. It pained him immensely to see the person, who had once been his second in command, stripped of his dignity. During the last visit, Dashiell had sported the latest in institutional jumpsuits. He had also been allowed supervised outings to the common recreational room, for meals and afternoon activities. However, a week later, he had managed to rip the tough fabric to make a rope to hang himself. An orderly had caught him, just as he was slipping the noose around his neck.

The man who had once been known as Flint, lay asleep. He was moaning, crying. Occasionally he would say a few intelligible words or kick his bare feet as if fighting an enemy.

"Even under sedation, the nightmares will not leave him alone." the nurse said sadly as she picked up the sheet that had fallen on the floor. With tender experts hands, she rearranged his gown and covered him with the sheet.

"Is he sedated now?"

She shook her head. As if on cue, Dash woke up screaming: "No, Ally!" Tears were running down his face. "Get off of me!" He tugged off the sheet with the little movement his hands were allowed.

"Easy Son," Clayton said, moving closer to the prone man.

"General," Dashiell said in a raspy voice. "I miss her so much."

"I know you do. I miss Alison too."

"It is all my fault that she is dead. I killed her."

The older man placed a hand on the shoulder of his former second in command. "It was an accident. You are not responsible for Alison's death."

"But, I was the one that stormed off that day. We were fighting. I could not take it anymore, so I left. If I had stayed, she would not have come after me. I would not have led her to the Red Shadow."

"You could not know you were going to be in a car accident." the retired General said gently. "The two of you fought all the time. It is how you communicated best."

Suddenly, without warning, the ex-warrant's officers eyes went wide. "General Hawk!" he yelled. "We must get out of here. Commander COBRA is coming. He is right behind that building. He's got a HISS tank. We got to go Sir!" Dash was fighting against his restraints, reacting to things only he could see and hear.

"Dashiell!" Clayton said firmly, giving an equally firm shake to the man's shoulder. "There is no COBRA. We defeated them a long time ago."

The institutionalised man looked up at his former commanding officer, as if noticing him for the first time. He blinked and new tears started to run down his cheeks. "Sir, can you help me?"

"What can I do for you, Son?"

"Scratch my nose. On the right side."

The older man did as requested. The patient closed his eyes, taking what little enjoyment he could from the brief relief. Quietly, without opening his eyes he pleaded: " Sir, get me out of here." He put his cheek against the hand on his shoulder.

"You know I can't do that." the retired General said gently. "You are here so people can help you."

"I can't be helped, Sir. Please just kill me. You got a gun. Just put it to my temple and pull the trigger."

"Son, I don't carry a gun."

"Yes you do! Left leg, under your sock. It's a 9mm." His argument sounded petty while at the same time like his life was dependant on it. It reminded Clayton of his 4 year old nephew's arguments.

"I don't carry any firearms anymore. I am retired. Remember?" he spoke gently, like he would have to his arguing nephew.

The wasted man started to cry in earnest. "I just want to die. I want it to end. I want to be with her."

Clayton took deep breath. He hated to see his old friend in this condition. It tore him apart inside. Knowing the breaking straw, did not make things easier. Flint had never been the same after the murder of Lady Jaye. In the beginning, the military had kept him in check, somewhat. However, this had derailed. Not long after the G.I. Joe had been disbanded, Dashiell had been taken into custody. He had been shooting at pigeons from his apartment window, with a semi-automatic weapon, screaming at the top of his lungs that they were COBRA flight pods come to spy on him.

After a ten hour standoff, one of the police officers involved, who had once been a green shirt, managed to contact General Abernathy. He in turn had reached Snake Eyes and Shana, who had come diffuse the situation. They has helped take their former team mate into custody without bloodshed.

After a psychiatric evaluations leading to the diagnosises of post traumatic stress syndrome and psychosis, he had been sent to the Henry J. Mackenzie Rehabilitation and Long Term Care Center for treatment. However, nothing they did helped. His condition had steadily deteriorated. He moved from one nightmarish delusion to another. The moments of clarity in between were becoming shorter and farther apart. When he was lucid, he begged for death. He had attempted to kill himself several times. The facility staff was doing its best to prevent him from hurting himself again.

Clayton wondered what was the price of life when a grown man had to be striped of his dignity for him to remain alive. For this was not living.

"There is no more COBRA . We defeated them. Remember? We killed Commander COBRA, Serpentor, and the Baroness. Destro is a quadriplegic in a high security facility. He is not going anywhere. We found their bodies. Remember?"

Dashiell's eye grew wide. He started looking around the room, as if trying to localise a sound. "I hear COBRA flight pods! They are coming!" With that, the veteran slipped into another delusion. He thrashed against the restraints that held him to the bed.

Nurse O'Connell put a hand on Clayton's shoulder. "We should go. There is nothing we can do for him. He does not even know we are here anymore."

The retired general could not pull his eyes away from the live corps that was once one of his most valuable men. The nurse turned his wheel chair around, and took him out of the room.

As they reached the door, they heard a gasp, like a man surfacing from a deep dive.

"General Hawk," Dashiell said, clarity in his voice.

The former commander turned himself around.

"Thank you for coming to visit me. I'm not much of a person anymore, but your visits make me feel a bit more human."

The older man came over to the bed and took his friend's hand. He resisted the urge to cringe at the feel of cold, clammy, loose flesh over bone. "I come because I want to."

They spent the next half hour talking about the good parts of the old days; of betting pools, pranks, Ninja training, and trying really hard to look the other way when certain people were together. Then, the ex-warrant officer slipped into another hallucination.

Nurse O'Connell escorted Clayton out of the room.

"I told you it was not pretty," she said gently.

"Do you think this new drug will help?"

"I don't know, Sir. It is showing promising results. But, I honestly don't know if anything can help him."

He had kept Dashiell's visit for the last, since he knew it would be an exhausting one. However, he had not expected to be that devastating, and at the same time rewarding. On the advise of nurse O'Connell, he had took a room in a nearby hotel, instead of driving back home that night.


	3. Chapter 3

G.I. Joe is not mine. It belongs to Hasbro. I just like playing with their armymen (and women) from time to time.

Conclusion to Hell on Earth

Clayton was awoken by the ring of his cellphone. It had taken a long time for him to fall asleep. Then, his rest had been troubled by disturbing dreams of him being the one strapped to a bed with COBRA all around. The phone had jarred him out of the deep sleep he had just attained.

"Hello?"

"I'm sorry to wake you Sir," Nurse O'Connell said. "I have bad news. Dashiell has passed away."

"When? How? Did he kill himself?" The questions were coming faster than he could speak.

"We don't know, Sir. We've sent his body to the local coroner for autopsy. We should have some preliminary answers in a day or two."

"Thank you, I'll stick around until we know," Clayton said.

Before he got out of bed, he took a few moments to say a silent prayer for another of his fallen soldiers. Few people knew that he tried to keep track of everyone who had served under him, even those designated as Greenshirts. These men had been as critical to the G.I. Joe as the core team of more colourful characters. He had known all their names and faces. When he found out that one had passed away, he tried to go to their memorial service. It gave his life purpose, just like the visits to the center did.

Clayton took his time getting cleaned up and dressed. He made arrangements to keep the room for a few more days. Then, he went back to the center in time to have lunch with his men. He spent the next few days talking with everyone, going out and getting them little things that they liked or needed, like gum, a specific brand of toothpaste, or kind of sock.

On the afternoon of the second day, the director of the center found the retired general in the gym of the facility, exercising.

"Ken, you have news for me?" he asked as he wiped the sweat off his face with a towel.

The psychiatrist nodded. Dr Kenneth Rich, having been a G.I. Joe himself, had been the logical choice to head the facility. "Yes, let's go to my office."

Once the door closed, Clayton did not waste time: "How did it happen?"

"He didn't take his life. It was a stoke."

"A stroke?"

"It can happen to any of us. His history of head injuries and medication increased his risk factors. The restraints could have been a causing factor too."

"Head injuries?"

"Yes, Sir. You were active too. How many times did you get knock out? Or just plain got hit on the head?" The older man nodded in understanding. "According to Dashiell's medical files, he had two reported sever concussions and five minor ones. The repeated brain injuries may have been responsible for his hallucination just as much as the traumatic events he experienced. That could in part explain why he never really responded to the drug therapies."

"What about the medication?"

"There is some research suggesting that certain anti-psychotics can cause strokes. Nothing that has been conclusively determined, but it's a possibility. Over the past few years, Dash went through quite the cocktail."

"You also mentioned the restraints."

The doctor nodded. "At the time, it appeared to be the lesser to two evils. However, since his movements were restricted, a blood cloth could have formed in his leg."

"A thrombosis," Clayton said. The psychiatrist nodded with a tilt of his head. "It's one of the things I learned about after this," he explained indicating his immobile legs.

"His stroke is what we call a hemorrhagic stroke," Ken kept on. "The cloth traveled to near the brain stem. Between the lack of oxygen to the area and the ruptured vessel, even if he had been on a cardiac monitor, there was nothing we could have done. Once the blood flowed over the brainstem, he probably had less than a few minutes to live. We are extremely fragile at that level."

Clayton took a deep breath. "I'm sadden by his death. At the same time, I'm relieved he's no longer suffering. I hope he's found peace in whatever comes after."

"Amen."

A few days later, Dashiell Fairborn's funeral plans were put into motion. He had requested to be cremated, and his ashes buried over Alison's coffin. The directors of the Arlington National Cemetery had hummed and hawed over it for a while. Eventually, they agreed since space was getting at a premium, and it did not affect the over all appearance of the memorial grounds.

So, in order to maintain the look of the place, Flint did not get a gravestone. Instead, a small stainless steel plaque was affixed to the bottom of Lady Jaye's marker. It read:

Dashiell R. Faireborne

US Army

Rank CW-4

Honored Soldier

Beloved Husband

May 6 1963

May he find peace in death.

On a sunny Monday afternoon, two dozen retired G.I. Joe and a hand full of family gathered to say a final goodbye to a good soldier who had paid a steep price for serving his country and fellow man.

Once the Minister was done, General Abernathy cleared his throat to say a few words. He spoke of Flint's dedication to duty and to Lady Jaye. When he talked about how hard they had made it for him to 'look the other way', a few hands had linked and low chuckles had been heard. He finished with: "Some soldiers pay the war with their lives. Chief Warrant Officer Dashiell Fairborn paid with his heart, mind, and body. Rest in peace Son. You have earned it."

A/N My original draft had Flint killing himself in a really ingenious way, thus relating back to a comment in the first chapter of this story. However, after my husband commenting that I had probably changed one too many diapers, I decided that a stroke would be just as realistic as my original plan, and certainly a lot more merciful.

Special thanks to Synbou, who helped with the research on anti-psychotic drugs and strokes.

Thank you for reading and reviewing.


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